


standstill

by Peachyboyy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Depressed Peter Parker, Depression, Dissociation, Hurt Peter Parker, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Parker is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:08:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25527187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peachyboyy/pseuds/Peachyboyy
Summary: Peter often felt like Atlas. Like he was holding the weight of the world. He never read the story of Atlas, so he had to wonder if Atlas felt like he were suffocating. Like the weight was crushing him, and it was so overwhelming, despite being so simple. He wondered if Atlas had ever explored the thought of just... letting it go. Letting everything go.-In other words, I’m projecting onto Peter again.
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Michelle Jones & Peter Parker, Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 5
Kudos: 82





	standstill

He sat on the top of Stark Tower, in the early hours of the morning. It wasn’t snowing, but the breeze still had the bite of winter. The stars had been rendered invisible due to the light pollution of skyscrapers- he could hear the humming of electricity throughout the towers surrounding him. He sat on top of the world.

And yet, he had never felt as fragile as he had in that moment. He had an eye over his city, but it had just served to remind him of the weight on his shoulders. The job of protecting innocent civilians had become a burden. He hated himself for feeling like that. He was supposed to be good. He was supposed to be happy to keep the people of New York City safe, and a little part of him was, but he was exhausted. 

The ugly truth was that it emptied him, scooping out parts of him until he was nothing but a vessel. He had become quiet and reserved- he couldn’t afford to waste energy. There were gaps in his memory. He had classes, homework, projects, days missing from his memory. His body had gone on autopilot. He was reminded of when Ben died, and he had dissociated. He saw himself, holding Ben in his arms, as the police arrived. He saw himself being brought home after going to the police station. It was the same feeling of not being able to control his body. He felt small, and cold. 

Peter was lonely. He knew that he had people to talk to- fuck, did he know, but it was hard. It was hard to tell Aunt May about how fucking exhausted and empty he felt when he knew that she came home from 12 to 18 hour shifts at the hospital. It was harder to tell Ned, who believed that he was a valiant hero who saved everyone (like the responsibility hadn’t become a constant weight, pushing down on Peter at all times because he couldn’t let someone else die). It was hardest to tell Mr. Stark, because he had been kidnapped, tortured, brainwashed, used and risked his life; Peter was just an amateur teenager he had wasted his time on, and was roped into mentoring. 

He knew that he was a burden. He dragged down everyone in his life. May wouldn’t have to work such long hours, Ned wouldn’t be bullied for hanging out with him- he says he isn’t, but they both know he’s lying, Happy wouldn’t be constantly annoyed by Peter’s stupid self, and Mr. Stark wouldn’t have to deal with his immaturity and incompetence. 

So he tried not to be. He made small talk with May, but never anything more in case she was too tired. He started eating less- some days forgoing meals in favor of a few cheap granola bars or couple handfuls of fruit. He was the reason the food bill skyrocketed, after all. He stopped initiating conversation with Ned, and starting spending lunch sleeping in the library. Ned had other friends, and was charismatic enough to have tons more, so Peter figured that he wouldn’t mind. Instead of texting Happy rapid fire after every patrol, he had stopped texting him completely. He had stopped talking to Mr. Stark on lab days, pretending to be “in the zone”, or skipping out on the lab completely by using patrol as an excuse. 

He knew that his lack of eating had contributed to his exhaustion. He knew both his lack of sleep and nutrition were wrecking his metabolism, and, in turn, his healing factor. He knew that he was touch starved. He knew that he was too tired to attempt anything other than patrol, and he could barely go out for more than an hour without getting black spots in his vision, or having heavy eyelids. But he did. He continued to push himself past his limits; he knew that he couldn’t sleep knowing there were crimes he could have prevented- people he could have protected. 

It was too much. He was sloppier. The victims were never hurt- he never allowed that. Instead, his collection of scars grew. His healing factor was slower. He had a gash down his left arm. They never used to scar after the healing factor. He had to wear a sweater in gym. He was so tired. He was so tired. He just wanted it to stop he just wanted it to stop _he just wanted it to stop-_

“I think” Peter whispered into the open night, coming back to himself “I think I want to die.” 

Despite the quietness of his admission, it had rung. Everything seemed to still, and the only sound he could hear was the ringing in his ears which reminded him of a flatline. His words bounced around in his head- uttering them had seemed so final. So unchangeable. Like him offing himself was inevitable. 

A shaky sigh followed his confession, and he realized his view of the skyline had become blurry. He tried to blink the tears away, the mechanical eyes of his suit blinking with him. 

“Okay” said Karen, voice soft yet calculating “I’m obligated to tell Mr. Stark about this, Peter.” How could an A.I. sound somber? 

“Yeah, I know.” Peter’s voice broke as he stood up and dragged his hand to his face, unmasking. 

The wind dragged through his curls, whipping his hair around his face. Tears rolled down his cheeks. his eyes felt puffy. He pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes. 

Everything was too much. 

He just wanted everything

_to stop_

**Author's Note:**

> yikes sorry for the vent. I’m also sorry that this sucked so much. I wrote in in the early hours of the morning, crying and with a headache, so it’s not exactly my best work.
> 
> in any case: did y’all see the major character death tag? huh. interesting.


End file.
